


Lights

by Siera_Writes



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, D/s elements, M/M, Smut, Teencast, Troffy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4885852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's pretty obvious to everyone but Smith's parents that they're in love. At least, Smith thinks it's love, though he's not sure quite how to quantify that... The word seems so saccharine, so infantile, and yet it's all he can think of to describe it. He adores every second he spends with Trott, squirrels the memories of accidental brushes of their hands and their shoulders knocking as they walk, just too close. He thinks he'll let Trott do anything he wants to him.</p><p>Well... Except beat Smith at this level; it's a matter of pride that the other boy shouldn't beat him at his favourite level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for the massive gap there's been. Two reasons. School's started again, and it's my As levels this year, so it practically takes up all my time, and I literally have no motivation with which I'd get anything written if I had the time anyway.
> 
> So updates will (probably) be few and far between from now on, until I have holidays and such.
> 
> Back to the important stuff though. This was written for the lovely feministdwarf on tumblr. Thank you for giving me something that kicked me into writing when I didn't want to - it's important my writing doesn't get rusty, so I'll need to somehow keep my motivation going, and writing for others is a great excuse!
> 
> Any mistakes are mine because I'm tired and also not used to writing them at this age so if 'man' is used instead of 'boy' it's my bad oops. Hopefully it's not shit due to the fact that this was written over multiple and well-dispersed days.

They're in Trott's room, sprawled over too-small beanbags Trott's had for years, various sweets and wrappers scattered in bright shades around them, both clad in pyjama pants and no tee, curtains drawn roughly, and only illumination emanating from the cathode ray television. They're playing on the brunet's console, the on-screen characters' movements clunky, frustrating, and the graphics polygonal. 

Neither teen cares - they're caught up in clicking buttons in escalating combinations as their avatars kick, punch, and jump in increasingly absurd displays. Smith loves this - sitting with Trott and just playing. They've done this for so long now, had each other at their houses, played games, eaten chocolates, kissed. 

It's pretty obvious to everyone but Smith's parents that they're in love. At least, Smith thinks it's love, though he's not sure quite how to quantify that... The word seems so saccharine, so infantile, and yet it's all he can think of to describe it. He adores every second he spends with Trott, squirrels the memories of accidental brushes of their hands and their shoulders knocking as they walk, just too close. He thinks he'll let Trott do anything he wants to him.

Well... Except beat Smith at this level; it's a matter of pride that the other boy shouldn't beat him at his favourite level. He barges Trott with his left shoulder in an underhand attempt to distract him, make some sort of comeback, but Trott just chuckles lowly, before rearing sideways to collide shoulder-first with Smith, with way more force than Smith used. 

He's half-knocked sideways off the beanbag, dropping the controller as he twists his upper body and slams his hands down to the carpeted floor to avoid falling flat on his face. Trott's already wracked with the high pitched giggling that might lead to him having tears in his eyes from laughing too hard at something that's not actually that funny, but ends up tickling him anyway, and Smith finds it hard to feel in any way irritated by the brunet, feels himself beaming slowly, genuinely. 

Trott's smile when he laughs like this is bright and like the sun and he can't deal with how constricted his chest feels right now. He has to ruin the moment somehow. His grin takes on a more mischievous cast, as multiple possibilities cross his mind. He settles on his favourite one. 

Painstakingly making his way back towards the brunet by walking jerkily on his knees, Smith readies himself, before launching forward and tackling the other boy from his seated position. He grabs the brunet under his arms and half-hauls, half-drags him from his threadbare beanbag, before depositing him unceremoniously on the floor in a much-complaining heap. Smith knows exactly where the other boy is most ticklish, and brushes light hands over Trott's front, fingers finding the dips and ridges of ribs and ruthlessly attacking. Trott can't fight back, wheezing in laughter and flailing his limbs uselessly, his whinging at Smith moving him completely overtaken by flustered spills of broken syllables and hitching breaths.

Smith moves to crouch above Trott, trying to keep his fingers dancing over the warm flesh and the bumps of his ribs. Trott's eyes shine in the kaleidoscopic array of colour from the tv, and the planes of his face, neck, chest are all made light and dark by the extreme lighting. Smith skims his hands lower, towards his slim waist, and Trott arches his back and unthinkingly brings both legs up, knees lightly pushing at the taller boy's rear, unbalancing him, and he drops to his elbows to be lay flush on top of the brunet.

This gives Trott a bit of time to pull his wits together, and the boy begins to breathe more normally again, still slightly breathless and with his eyes shining. Smith pulls back to look down at him, their noses brushing. 

"Hey there." The wry twist of Trott's lips, and his amused tone, promises that he's going to get his own back on Smith. The television blares, soundtrack bold and looping, but entirely ignored in favour of each other.

A leg hikes up around Smith's waist, and he doesn't fight Trott rolling them easily, revelling in the feel of the other boy in control. Trott draws himself more upright, resting on his heels with his knees planted on either side of the auburn haired boy's chest, before setting about trailing the fingers of his right hand across Smith's stomach while the left lightly skims just below the waist of his jeans teasingly, the brunet ducking his head slightly to hide a cheeky smile, fringe falling to cover his eyes. 

Smith gasps, reaching with uncoordinated hands to try to knock the other boy's from the patches of skin that Trott knows are his weaknesses. He reaches to try to tickle the brunet's sides again, and splutters while attempting to get Trott to stop, but only half-seriously. He enjoys their little skirmishes, enjoys feeling so close with skin on skin and breaths against necks, lips on lips, and marvels at the slender limbed strength of the other boy. It's not just his physical strength which fascinates him though; more and more often, Smith's noticed himself drawn in by something that's more than charisma on the brunet's behalf.

He manages to fix his fingers around the other boy's waist, pull him down flat on top of himself with disarming flickers of his fingers against the brunet's ticklish sides, prompting dual bouts of huffed laughter, before leaning up to kiss the other boy chastely on the tip of his nose. Trott recoils in shock at the sudden closeness of their faces, eyes going comically wide, before they both smile widely at each other once more, quickly forgetting their little fight, in favour of scouring each other's face, to try to work out who will make the first move. 

Their breaths are beginning to regulate again; Smith can feel Trott's chest expanding and contracting where he lies on top of him. Trott looks eerie and pretty in the strange half-light, eyelashes edged in colour. He blinks a couple of times, and Smith thinks he can see Trott's resolve weakening, before the brunet tilts his head to the right, holding Smith's eyes as best he can all the while - like a viper, hypnotic - dipping down, and licking up along the line of Smith's jaw, along to the hollow beneath his ear. Smith shivers, breaths becoming more laboured, as Trott's eyes hold his, heavy, dark.

They're teetering on the edge of something.

Trott leans in again, this time to kiss Smith's neck, just below his jaw, and it's damp, open mouthed, sensitive skin worried with edges of teeth. Smith breathes out heavily, clenching his fingers. He's not quite sure yet what they're going to end up doing, so he's just going to lie back, and see where Trott takes them. It's fairly addictive, though, having this much single-minded attention lavished on you. Smith would be lying if he said he hadn't hoped the evening would end with this.

But it's just more intense than it's ever seemed to be, even with the almost-laughable techno-esque music of their paused game. They're only half-bared to the darkness, modesty intact with boxers and pyjama bottoms, and yet Smith feels raw, more exposed than ever.

Trott moves to nibble at the lobe of his ear, and Smith can't help his hands unconsciously jolting up from where they had rested curled on the ground. Trott skims his fingertips lightly across Smith's chest, then down his arms, prompting shivers, obviously enjoying the ease with which he can elicit reactions. The digits follow the limbs' dips and swells with a deliberate idleness, before finding the taller boy's wrists, and Trott's fingers lock loosely but surely around them. Trott bends his legs slightly and rests his shins just below Smith's knees, his body now pinning Smith wholly to the floor.

Smith could fight it easily, but he's enjoying it too much. He likes how this feels, likes seeing this side to Trott that nobody else does. Instead, he tips his chin back, bearing his neck, inviting further ministrations from Trott. The brunet notices, a small, pleased smile curling the corners of his lips, and he slowly moves back to a more central position, face kept close to the heat of Smith's vulnerable skin. The auburn haired boy feels the brush of Trott's nose, and a long, slightly ragged inhale, before a light kiss, chaste and sweet, is pressed at the column of his throat. And then, in the wake of the kiss, he feels the barest touch of twin edges of teeth either side of his windpipe, grazing over the thin skin above the heat there.

The gentleness is a surprise - it makes his heart ache and his blood sing - and he isn't prepared for the short whimper that flees from him; they're on the verge of something dangerous here - it's not like their sometimes joke-casual build-up to sex where they're kind of messing about - this is drawn out and the darkness surrounding them seems leaden with meaning and Trott could be both angelic or the worst thing to have happened to Smith with his cheekbones sharpened impossibly further by the harsh backlight, his eyelashes dusky shadows under his eyes closed in bliss. 

Smith feels his arms carefully guided above his head, wrists crossed over, and then transferred to the brunet's right hand - his dextrous fingers hold his arms in place, while Trott's other hand brushes down the taller boy's front, trailing lightly over a nipple, making Smith squirm. He feels a small huff of laughter against his neck, but then Trott begins laving at the skin there, all the while his hand proceeds lower with a teasing slowness and Smith can barely stand it, knows what's happening but is so scared of the ramifications; this is so different from every other time and they both know it - Trott's leading their every action and Smith will go wherever he's taken.

Just before Trott's hand slips under the waistband of Smith's pyjamas and boxers, the progress slows, then finally ceases, as he pauses, pulling his head back slightly, hand splayed wide over Smith's abdomen, and his body moved to the side, so his weight isn't resting fully on the taller boy. Trott's right arm slips back from where it had held Smith's wrists, and he suddenly feels cold. 

He can't see what's wrong - Trott's got his face turned into the shadows cast by the television to the left of him, and hanging to stare straight at the carpet from between two tensed shoulders. The sweep of his back, pale, breaks the surrounding dark of the rest of Smith's vision. All he can hear are both their breaths, his hitching, Trott's being consciously suppressed.

He doesn't know what he should do, what he should say. He remembers his arms are crossed above his head, and he's about to move them to reach for the other boy, to pull him close and ask what's wrong, before the other boy speaks.

"Fuck." It's quiet, a whisper really, with the slightest edge of hysteria, like Trott's realised something he's never known he's wanted for all his life will never be his, and Smith feels his stomach lurch, like he's been pushed out of a doorway storeys above the ground. He can't decode the path of the brunet's thoughts from that one word alone, so he can't reassure him, can't help at all.

Their contact is broken as Trott pulls himself upright, still straddling Smith, before he hoists his left leg over in a smooth sweep to move away fully. He's kneeling beside Smith with his head bowed and his hands clasped with fingers entwined at the base of his abdomen. Smith wants to sit up, but right now Trott's extruding an aura of what he can only describe as being of a wounded animal about to bolt, and he doesn't want to risk startling Trott.

The boy's pale skin is drenched in flickering hues where he kneels, unmoving. He won't meet Smith's eyes from where he remains on the floor.

"I'm sorry Smith..." His voice trails away, pitch higher than usual with stress. In an abrupt move he lifts his left arm to brush across his mouth, and he clears his throat, before trying to modulate his tone, trying not to seem affected. It's a defence mechanism Smith's seen used by the boy far too many times, and it hurts that he feels the need to use it on Smith.

But it could be a case of the brunet's self esteem - or lack of it - kicking him when he's just found himself happy again. What is there that Trott feels - and has felt - the need to hide from him? 

The brunet has paused, seemingly searching for the correct words to explain what he's feeling, to be able to articulate fully to Smith and have him understand, but he can't find them, ending up snarling in frustration, his usual eloquence leaving him. He brings up his left hand, pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes clamped shut, and sucks in a large breath of air, right hand gesturing uselessly by his side.

Smith reckons it's okay for him to sit up now, and remembers again that his arms are not by his sides. He moves them across the carpet in whispering arcs, before using them to push himself up to seated, sternum still aching from what his knee-jerk emotions are trying to tell him is a betrayal. He knows it's not. Knows Trott would never do that. So he crosses his legs and stays very still as he waits for the other boy to work out what to say, how to say it.

Finally, Trott seems to know what he needs to convey. The boy still seems on edge, smaller than usual, and Smith just wants to bundle him into a hug. But that would be rushing things and he knows Trott would benefit more from getting these feelings out than secreting them away for a bit longer, letting them stagnate and grow more toxic.

Trott slumps where he's knelt, turns away, gestures vaguely at Smith with his right arm, before dropping it. "Look, mate..." He sighs, sounds weary, as though he's tried to work it out himself for a long time. Smith wouldn't put it past Trott to do that; he's fastidious and a perfectionist. He's probably lain awake agonising over it, trying to reconcile it with himself. "I... want to... look, I want you to be mine, but for me to also be yours, if that makes sense, and for you to be able to trust me wholly and to be able to rely on me to take you over the edge, and - fuck, why's this so hard to explain?!"

The boy continues, words a flurry in his panic to better explain himself. "I know you lo- uh, we've both explained that we feel similarly, but I feel something else, and I'm sorry for pushing it on you earlier..." He looks absolutely miserable, hands falling from where they're frozen mid-gesture to slap against his thighs, defeated. Smith's heart clenches at the other boy still being unable to believe that anyone would love him.

And he knows what Trott's angling after - he felt it just the same: when Trott pinned him; when he held his hands down... But Trott thinks he didn't want it, didn't like it. That he pushed it on Smith and he felt like he had to just accept it. Probably, him lying back and not moving, not reciprocating, except tipping his head back once, gave it this appearance.

That's not it, though. And he doesn't think him just saying he's fine with it - in fact, that he's more than fine with it, with this new dynamic that's really been there all along, has been growing and developing alongside them and their relationship - will convince Trott of this fact. 

He knows he's affected by what Trott was doing, and if it's possible to demonstrate this, then maybe he'll understand it's not a one-sided thing, not at all, and he hasn't done a thing wrong. Smith clings to this thought with a naive hope - even knowing they would stay together, there'd always be this unspeakable thing between them, skulking in the background of their every interaction. It's either they do this now, or they never breach it again.

Smith reaches out for Trott's hand where it's currently being wrung in front of the boy, draws it closer to him as he edges forwards on his knees, then resumes his pose cross-legged on the floor. When the brunet looks to him, taken-aback and wary, all Smith does is fire a thin lipped smile back at him, trying to radiate the comfort the other boy needs. With the hand held loosely in his own pair, Smith focuses mainly on the feel of it, the weight, the elegance to each digit, strokes a thumb over the back of the hand, traces the ridges of tendons there. They're on the verge of being too cool, adrenalin making them shake, and the taller boy wishes he could heat them properly with his own.

After a while, the brunet sighs - still with tension - but he seems to be relaxing. Smith knows it's because the boy thinks they've put this away behind them, that they'll never speak of it and it will always haunt them.

Smith's not going to let this happen. He draws the hand closer, presses a simple kiss to the groove between the wrist bones. The brunet snaps to look at him, a little confused, a little surprised, but in the light of what just happened, his gaze is glowering and his hackles are back up. Which is not what Smith was intending. And to be honest, the opposite of what Trott really wants.

Smith reaches a hand forwards to cup Trott's face, base of his hand level with the sharp edge of the other boy's jaw, and draws his thumb in a shallow arc over the swell of his cheekbone, all the while ensuring their gazes meet. He can feel a resistance there; Trott is just barely forcing himself to sit still and with the illusion of being comfortable. It's a testament to how much time he's spent with the brunet, how close they are - he can feel the mutiny thrumming below his skin, wanting to be let out in a surge of limbs. 

Trott would rather run. Maybe even punch Smith. But he has a handle on himself - perhaps too much of one - and he sits there, dissension swirling dark in his eyes. Their game, neglected, has cut to sweeping shots of pixelated vistas in even fades, and they're lit in swathes of increasing brightness before the dark surges back. The boy in front of him looks like a study in lighting: brooding, with his head tilted ever so slightly, hooded eyes multifaceted with emotion. 

"Look at me." He makes his voice as light as possible. And oh, Trott does, baleful, almost looking like he's waiting for the mockery. Smith lets go of the hand he was still holding in his left hand, proffers his bare wrists to the other boy, then juts his chin down at them to indicate to the brunet that he should take them. After a few seconds, his wrists are uncertainly resting with the brunet's hands cradling them, barely, as though they're glass, and might shatter.

"Go on." He says it blasé, and he's challenging Trott now, doesn't know if the boy will meet it, or recoil from himself.

A pause, with Trott's brows furrowing slightly, before he tightens his grip slightly, but it's not much. Not enough. He holds Trott's eyes with his own, willing the brunet to do something. And then, with a light in his eyes like there's something he might have realised, and wants to make sure, he leans forwards. Slow, keeping his eyes on Smith the whole time, watching his face for discomfort, unhappiness. Smith holds still, waits to see what the he does. 

He doesn't resist his eyes fluttering closed when he feels the light kiss at his Adam's apple, doesn't suppress a moan at the lightest rake of teeth across the skin there. When he hasn't felt another touch from Trott for a couple more seconds, he opens his eyes to find the other boy has pulled away, his eyes wide and optimistic while blown dark with lust. 

And no doubt, his own are too.

Smith shifts, conscious of the heat buzzing at the base of his spine. He leans closer, ends up looking up just slightly through his eyelashes. When he speaks, it's lowered with amazement, and not a little arousal. "Look at what you do to me."

It's at that point, Smith thinks, that Trott actually believes him. Believes that Smith feels the same way, that this will happen. That they both want the same thing. And the smile he receives is breathtaking. Because it isn't even about sex, at this point. It's about Trott being able to be himself, to accept himself, without it playing on his mind and him beating himself up about it, always.

And then Trott practically launches himself at Smith, his exuberance palpable, knocking them both flat to the ground again, resuming their position from earlier. The brunet drops Smith's hands in favour of cupping his face and kissing him once, chastely, but deeply, square on his lips. Again, the taller boy lies back, as a hand sweeps across the curve of his forehead, fingers twining with the hair there, pulling Smith's head to the side, baring his neck. The brunet sucks at his pulse, before moving on to the juncture between his neck and shoulder, worrying the flesh there with his incisors. The other boy's left hand skims down Smith's chest to his groin at the same time, preamble forgone this time.

Smith writhes at the first touch to his length, the combined intensity of both it and Trott's ministrations at his neck clouding his mind, inhibitions forgotten. He feels Trott chuckle, vibrations low against his throat, his chest. Trott tugs at his hair a little more sharply, combining it with increased pressure around Smith's cock, and he moans, breathy, broken. There's the brush of lips against the underside of his jaw, and a few shaky breaths from the brunet that he feels fan across the skin there, making him shiver.

Another kiss, this time below his ear, and then the brunet takes the lobe between his teeth, releases it and licks along the shell. Smith's mind is a mess of juddering images; the console's ongoing cutscene is a slow strobe lighting them with seemingly random gaudy colours - one moment Trott's eyes and hair are offset by blue, the next he's branded red, and the graceful shifting of muscles below his skin are caught in a strange technicolour abandon.

He tastes electricity in the air, a prickling on his tongue, and he hears their breaths in syncopated tandem. He didn't realise he was pushing his hips up to meet Trott's for blissful contact, but the brunet is doing the exact same thing, grinding down against him. It's a race for release: he's already too far gone. He couldn't stop this if he tried. He doesn't want to, anyway.

His wrists are pressed to the ground, to either side of his hips, and he's pinned wholly by Trott, he can't really move, all he can do is feel, and it's so fucking good. He doesn't know how much time has passed, but he feels his thrusts becoming more jagged, and Trott's too - their rhythm's falling apart - and he knows they're both close. The boy above him shifts, fumbling with Smith's wrist as he tries to work out what to do with it with his mind very much elsewhere, before dropping it with an incoherent mutter of irritation.

Smith curls it around the brunet's trim waist, feeling the slight slick of sweat there, the hitching of Trott's ribcage as he pulls in ragged breaths, and uses it for leverage to pull them flush together, prompting twin gasps of pleasure. Trott's reaching down now, to finish him off; he feels the bump of his knuckles against his thigh, and then the careful sweep of his fingertips across the skin there and under his pants and boxers until the other boy reaches his arousal.

Trott gives him a few rough strokes, hot and fast, and Smith's coming, gasping while he screws his eyes shut, colours flickering behind his lids like a Mandelbrot set with the pressure. It takes a while for him to come back down, breaths short, and he distantly feels the brunet tense where he's practically draped over him, groan muffled against the skin of Smith's neck.

"Fuck." It's not very inspired, Smith admits. It does, however, seem to encompass how he feels. There's a breathless huff of laughter from the brunet, and the taller boy can hear the smile in Trott's voice. Their limbs are tangled and they're in a half-debauched pile; their pants are still on their hips, though slung lower than before. "Shit, we should've taken our pants off, mate..." He doesn't want to have to bring them back home, have his parents ask why they're in the state that they are.

"Oi." He looks back to Trott from where he was lost in a swirl of worries. He's got his chin resting on Smith's chest, full lips curled at the corners, cheeks still slightly flushed. "Mate, it'll be fine. You can wash them here."

Trott's head is haloed by light catching flyaway hairs. And Smith knows he utterly loves him. Loves him for his mind and humour and everything else. Just fucking loves him. Might cry for how it aches in his chest. He lifts his hands to hold Trott's face between his hands, just holds them there. Wishes he could show the brunet how he feels just as he radiates heat from his hands. 

But he holds Trott's eyes, smiles a small, genuine smile. Wishes Trott could believe the love he doubtless sees in his eyes, but is no doubt rationalising as being undeserved.

Smith's not worried though. They have time.


End file.
